A Hairy Situation
by daleksanddetectives
Summary: Sherlock is hit on the head and John has to clean him up, finding out something new about his flatmate in the process. Short crack fic which ended up being more crack/friendship
1. Chapter 1

"Thanks Sherlock, you've been a great help. You too John," Greg Lestrade runs his fingers through his grey hair, watching police officers swarm around the criminal and whatever evidence they can find, "we've got it from here, so you can both go home," he eyes the growing bump on Sherlock's forehead, "and, relax for a bit would you? You've been after this guy for five days and you're lucky John found you and disarmed him before he did something worse than hit you."

Sherlock sighs dramatically and spins around without a word, marching toward the end of the street.

"Thanks Greg," John says before jogging away to catch up with the long legged detective.

They manage to flag down a taxi and travel in a companionable silence; Sherlock texting and John watching London pass by, occasionally glancing over at Sherlock. He couldn't help but notice the bright pink lump on Sherlock's head where the criminal had hit him with a stray piece of wood.

His doctorly instincts started kicking in by the time they get back to Baker Street and he insists that he would have a look before doing anything else. Sherlock tuts but obeys quietly, the adrenaline and caffeine rush for the previous few days were starting to drop and he quite frankly couldn't be bothered to argue.

"Right, coat and jacket off and go sit in the bathroom," John orders as they get into the living room, "I'll be through in a minute."

Sherlock shrugs off his coat and suit jacket and throws them onto the sofa before shuffling into the hall while undoing the first button on his shirt, uncharacteristically silent. John, slightly taken aback by how quiet Sherlock was being, especially after a case that big, steps into the kitchen and picks up the first aid kit he keeps handy for occasions when one of Sherlock's experiments go wrong and promptly walks to the bathroom.

He finds Sherlock sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bath tub with his head in between his knees.

Sherlock hears John enter the room and lifts his head slightly and mumbles, "I'm fine," before pushing himself to his feet and teetering to the closed toilet lid.

That's when John sees the small trickle of blood just under Sherlock's hair. John rubs his face and sighs.

"You were just hit across the face with a chunk of wood. You are not fine, Sherlock."

"Fine. Dizzy."

"Yeah, you will be. For the reason I just said."

He stands in front of Sherlock and peers into his face, trying to gauge the damage to his forehead, "looks like you'll be fine. It's just a graze and a bump really, some paracetamol and a good night's sleep should do you a world of good. You'll stop being dizzy after a lie down. You don't feel sick or anything do you?"

Sherlock grunts in reply and slouches, which John takes as a no and Sherlock's way of saying to just get on with it. He balances the first aid kit on the sink and sprays some antiseptic on a cotton wool ball. As he dabs at Sherlock's head he continues, "From what I can see it's hardly anything, the bump'll go down in a few hours. But I want to check the rest of your head, just in case."

Sherlock winces at the sting of the antiseptic but doesn't speak, so John assumes he should just keep going.

He cleans up the cut, and is silently happy that he hadn't found any splinters before putting down the cotton wool and saying, "I'm going to check your head now. Tell me if it hurts."

John carefully runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, checking for any more damage. This is the first time he's really been able to get this close to the dark curls when he spots something and suddenly stops moving his hands.

"What?" Sherlock snaps.

"It's... nothing. Just... your hair," John manages.

"What about my hair?"

_He obviously isn't that hurt if he's already snapping at me_, John thinks, "It's the roots," he contemplates for a second, "Sherlock? Do you dye your hair?"

Sherlock snorts, "Of course not, it's naturally dark brown."

"Really? Because your roots look very... auburny to me."

Sherlock is stony faced, "are you sure _you_ didn't get hit on the head John?"

He pauses, "I don't care, you know. I mean, I've dyed mine before and it's not like I'll go screaming about it at Scotland Yard," he decides to change the subject and roots through the first aid kit for some paracetamol, "here, take these and go to bed. You'll be fine in the morning."

He packs up the kit and throws the cotton wool into the bin, just as he gets to the door Sherlock speaks.

"Thank you," he swallows the tablets without water and strides through the bathroom door, the dizziness obviously gone, and into his room, but not before flashing a small smile at John.

"Good night," John smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John is sipping at a mug of tea in front of a plate of toast and is reading the newspaper when Sherlock saunters through from his bedroom.

"Morning," John says over his mug, "how's the head?"

Sherlock grunts as he sits down, spotting the mug of tea John had made and left for him, "what do you think?"

John throws a box of paracetamol he had hidden behind the paper over the table and smirks. He looks at the purple bruise flowering out from under Sherlock's hairline, "he really did a number on you Sherlock," he leans over and touches the bruise, Sherlock just looks at him suspiciously as he swallows two tablets with a swig of tea, "the bump is gone but you're going to be left with that for a while."

"Wonderful."

Sherlock opens his laptop and John goes back to the paper, they let the companionable silence fall over them again. It's interrupted ten minutes later when Sherlock's stomach gives a loud grumble.

John blinks and looks up, "have you eaten at all in the last few days?"

"Tedious."

He pushes his plate of toast across the table, "eat. It'll make you feel better," _and stop you being so grumpy_, he thinks.

They fall into quiet again, within five minutes Sherlock has mindlessly picked up a piece of toast and started to chew. John finishes the paper and stands. He starts to fill the sink with warm water and pads into the living room to retrieve any dirty dishes. He starts washing them, humming under his breath.

"You aren't going to say anything about my hair then?" Sherlock mumbles out of the blue.

"Not if you don't want to," he says, "pass me that plate would you?"

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows as he passes it over, "well, normally—"

"We don't exactly have a normal relationship. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"Oh. It's just that. I was wondering, if… hold on," Sherlock strides into his room and starts rooting around in the drawers.

John stops what he's doing and turns, "what are you doing?"

Sherlock returns with a small box and places it on the table and coughs, "I require some help,"

John curiously picks the box up and reads, _Medium Dark Brown - Extra Shine! With pomegranate extract._

"Hair dye? Are you asking me to do your hair? I would have thought you'd do it yourself, or at least go to a hairdresser or something."

"I usually do go to a hairdresser, however, it's always a bit of a hassle and when I do it myself I miss parts of it and Mycroft laughs at me."

John blinks slowly, "right," he scratches his head and opens the box, eyeing the various bottles, "it can't be that difficult."

Sherlock grins and dumps his now empty mug into the sink and waltzes into the living room, his blue dressing gown billowing dramatically behind him.

"But," John says, wincing that he's going to have to ruin Sherlock's good mood so soon, "we can't do it today."

Sherlock pokes his head around the corner and sneers, "why ever not? You clearly said yourself that you can see the orange coming through,"

John sighs and steps over to press his forefinger on Sherlock's bruise, who in turn yelps and grabs at his head.

"That's why idiot. You have an open wound on your hairline. Even though it's small, if you get dye in the graze it'll sting like hell and then I'll never hear the end of your complaining."

Sherlock scowls, "fine," before going to sit down and concentrate on his laptop.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, silently cursing himself for bringing out the consulting five year old. He sighs, "I'm going to the shop for milk and bread, text me if you need anything."

Sherlock just grunts at him.

John shoves his feet into his shoes and leaves, making a mental checklist of what to buy as he walks. His phone goes off once while he's out, "Shampoo. SH"

_At least he's still talking to me,_ he thinks as he types out a quick okay message.

He buys the necessary and finds the fruity shampoo he knows Sherlock likes and makes his way home. Dumping the bags on the kitchen table he goes into the living room to kick off his shoes, and sees Sherlock tuning his violin by the window.

He sighs, _I can't believe I'm about to give in to this insufferable child, but, _"give it just under a week, it should be healed enough for you not to whine when the bleach gets into it, okay?"

Sherlock faces the window and smirks. He always got John to do what he wanted in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Exactly four days later Sherlock deems his head to have healed enough to finally dye his hair, so he spends the entire day moping, waiting for John to get home from work.

When he does get home, John begins to worry. A silent 221B is never a good sign, so he creeps up the stairs and calls "Sherlock?" before opening the living room door to find Sherlock with his feet hanging over the back of the sofa and his head resting on the coffee table, arms folded across his chest.

John is slack jawed, "What are you- Actually, never mind. I've found you in weirder positions."

"Bored," he opens his eyes and blinks, his face is a bit pink from being upside down for so long, "my head's healed and you said you would dye my hair. Now take your coat off and do what you need to," he pulls himself to his feet, picks up the box of dye and shakes it in front of John's face, "I'll be in the bathroom."

John is stunned as Sherlock pushes past him.

His tongue darts over his lips and he shrugs his coat off, hanging it behind the door. He goes into the kitchen and makes two cups of tea before following Sherlock down the hall. He stands in front of the bathroom door and kicks it, "let me in, Sherlock," _and please be decent for once_, he thinks.

Sherlock opens the door; his dressing gown is hanging off his shoulder and he's still wearing his ratty old pyjamas. He looks down at the mugs in John's hands and furrows his eyebrows, a curt "why?" escapes his lips.

"So you don't get too bored while I paint your head, now sit," he squeezes past and puts the teas on the cistern lid. Turning, he puts his hands on his hips, "well, where's the stuff? Better get started so we're not at this all night."

Sherlock hands him the box and sits down on the closed toilet seat (just like he'd done a few days earlier, after the case) and just looks up at John expectantly.

John takes the various bottles out the box and places them in the sink. He opens the instructions and purses his lips, "right, take off your dressing down and shirt," he throws him an old towel, "put that around your shoulders. I'd rather not have to wash dye out of your clothes."

Sherlock obediently takes off his shirt and wraps the towel around himself, shivering at the sudden coolness. John snaps on some rubber gloves and hands a brush to Sherlock, "brush your hair while I get this mixed up."

John adds chemicals together while Sherlock drags the brush through his curls (which were particularly unruly today). Once both are happy with their efforts, John starts to paint on the first of the dye trying to avoid the still faintly purple bruise. Sherlock winces slightly when John gets to the area where the skin was broken. John follows Sherlock's hairline, before dividing the hair into sections and starting on the rest.

"What are you doing? Is this right?"

John smiles, "trust me, I know what I'm doing. Harry did hairdressing for a while and she made me be her guinea pig enough times."

Sherlock lets out a bark of a laugh, knocking John's hand so he drips a bit of dye on Sherlock's ear, which made John give a high pitched giggle.

"We need to open a window," he laughs, "I think the fumes are getting to my head already."

He puts the dye down and does just that, before going back to Sherlock he grabs the door and waves it a bit, trying to waft in clean air. He quickly picks up the dye again and gets back to work. Once he's happy with the dye covering his friend's head, he dumps the brush and bottle back into the sink.

"Now we wait."

"I'm bored already."

John sighs and does to fetch both their laptops and phones. He sits with Sherlock for another forty five minutes (Sherlock on the closed toilet lid and John on the floor leaning against the bath) while the dye does its job. They don't talk much; John updates his blog and Sherlock replies to emails, both occasionally sipping at their now cold tea.

"Okay," John says eventually, "it should be done now. Do you want to have a shower and do it yourself or just stick your head in the bathtub and let me wash it?"

Sherlock shrugs, "would you do it? I'd probably get it all over the walls."

"I'm already up to my eyeballs in it, so I might as well. Come on then, lean over the edge and pass me the shower head."

Sherlock throws the towel to the floor and does as he is told. John turns the shower onto a reasonably warm temperature and starts washing Sherlock's hair, making sure not to miss any bits of dye.

Sherlock tries to say "the water is going up my nose" but it comes out as a garbled mumble, some of the water going in his mouth and making him splutter, so John just flicks his ear with his free hand and tells him to shut up.

After ten minutes John runs his hands through Sherlock's now very wet hair. Happy with his work he says, "I'll shampoo it and then you'll be done."

Sherlock mumbles some more nonsense and keeps his head in the bath so he doesn't drip water on the floor. The fruity shampoo overpowers the smell of chemicals, and soon John shuts off the shower. He admires his work and throws a clean towel over Sherlock's head. John cleans the bath tub, getting rid of any stains while Sherlock stand and towel dries his hair.

He looks at himself in the mirror, "yes, thank you John, this is acceptable."

John smiles and picks up the towels and bottles, before leaving he says, "I can't say it's fantastic, but at least Mycroft won't laugh at you."

END

_Thank you so much to everyone who read all of this (and for the comments, they all really mean a lot!)_

_Now I've had my silly cracky fun I'm going to get on with writing my post!Reichenbach fic. I've got all my notes written down, I just have to type it up and make it readable._


End file.
